Aria kept her gaze locked on the little scar inside Luca’s wrist. It felt like all the noise around them, the clack of studs on concrete, the whistle blasts, the jealous whispers from female staff blurred until only that mark remained.

“Luca,” she said, forcing her voice steady, “have we met before?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “You mean besides yesterday, the west tunnel, and the pitch this morning?”

“You know what I mean.”

A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I’m sure I’d remember you.”

“You flirt too easily, and you're shameless.” she snapped.

He lifted both hands. “Wasn’t flirting, Ms D’Angelo. Just answering your question.”

Before she could fire back, the director of communications, Marco Bianchi, strode toward them, clipboard tucked beneath one arm.

“Ms D’Angelo, a word.”

“I'd be back.” She mouthed as she pointed at Luca whose lips twitched as a response.

Aria smoothed her blazer and followed him. Luca’s eyes tracked her until she disappeared through the tunnel entrance.

Bianchi led her into his glass, walled office overlooking the pitch.

“We’ve got an emergency,” he said. “Our lead spokesperson came down with pneumonia. The Serie A media consortium is hosting its annual Kick for Hope Charity Gala tomorrow night in Milan. We need a face, and you’re it.”

“Me?” Aria blinked.

“You speak five languages, you look sharp, and the board trusts you after twenty-four hours, somehow.” He handed her an information packet. “You’ll give a five-minute keynote on behalf of Lazio and the league’s anti-gambling initiative. Black-tie. Car leaves at sixteen hundred.”

A gala packed with reporters, cameras, and rival clubs it was the perfect stage for her father’s test. Aria’s pulse kicked up, but she nodded crisply. “Consider it handled.”

“Good.” Bianchi checked his watch. “Press rehearsal at fifteen-thirty. Wear something the sponsors will remember.”

“Okay, sit down and make yourself home.”

For some reason Bianchi refused to let her leave the stadium and before she knew what was happening it was already evening.

Bianchi nit-picked her cadence until her cheeks hurt from fake smiling. She still had to tailor her gown, review talking points, and draft social-campaign copy before dawn.

“Alright, I think we're done here, you can take your leave.” she said and she sighed. It was too little for him to notice.

“Alright, I'd be in the media room.” She said while she stood up and he nodded.

When she reached the media room, Luca leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.

He spoke first. “About earlier…”

“I don’t have time for games,” she said, brushing past him.

Inside, the room smelled of stale coffee and overheated servers. She set her laptop on the console and plugged in the club’s encrypted drive. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Luca hovering at the threshold.

“What now, Doctor Doom?” She sighed.

“You’re angry,” he said quietly.

“I’m busy.”

He stepped closer. “Angry because I flirted, or because I didn’t?” It's been so long he found anyone interesting and he was going to give himself a seat at the very front roll.

She shot him a glare. “I’m angry because I need competence, not distractions.”

“Then let me be competent.” He lowered his voice. “Security pulled the CCTV logs from the west tunnel. Someone wiped last week’s footage. I can help you find out who.”

Aria’s heart skipped, he’s probing. Is he probing? “Why come to me?”

“Because you’re not afraid to ask hard questions,” he said. “And,” his gaze softened, “because you’re the only one here who notices things.”

The sincerity in his tone rattled her. She cleared her throat. “Fine. I’ll keep you updated.”

Luca nodded once and left. The door clicked shut. Aria exhaled shakily, then opened a hidden partition on her laptop. She needed to copy tomorrow’s intel packet onto a secure stick before sending her nightly report to Riccardo.

She reached for the small USB tucked beneath her blazer but froze.

The drive was gone.

“Impossible!” She rummaged through every pocket, her handbag, the desk drawers. Nothing.

A chill crawled up her spine. Luca just left. But he’d never gotten close enough…

Unless someone else had…

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown number: He already looked. Move faster. Girl, you seem to have lost your touch.

Aria’s stomach lurched. Her father’s shadow network was watching. She killed the screen and shoved fear down deep.

“Alright, time to get ready.”

---

Hope Gala – Milan.

Crystal chandeliers glimmered above a ballroom of three hundred glittering guests. Aria’s emerald gown skimmed the marble floor as she stepped onto the dais. Cameras flashed. She delivered the keynote flawlessly measured warmth, crisp statistics, a closing Italian proverb that made the crowd murmur with approval.

While sponsors applauded, she sensed rather than saw movement near the stage-left curtain. Two men in maintenance coveralls wheeled a lighting rig too close to the velvet drapes. Her instincts screamed.

Not here.

The rig’s base clanged. A cable sparked. Flame licked up the curtain with terrifying speed.

“Fire!” Someone shouted.

Panic rippled through the hall. Women in couture shrieked, men shoved chairs. Aria scanned for exits, guiding a cluster of elderly donors toward the east stairs.

A collapsing beam cracked overhead.

Strong arms grabbed her waist and pulled her sideways just as a shower of burning fabric rained down. They slammed into the floor behind an overturned banquet table. Her ears rang.

“Stay low,” Luca said, pressing a linen napkin over her nose. Heat roared past, smoke clawed her lungs, but Luca’s body shielded her, his heartbeat thrumming against her back.

Security herded guests out; sprinklers hissed far too late. Luca lifted her, half-carried her through the service hallway and out into the frigid night air of the loading dock.

She doubled over, coughing. Luca rubbed her back until the fit eased, then shrugged off his tux jacket and draped it around her trembling shoulders.

“Thank you,” she gasped as their eyes met.

His fingers brushed a soot-smudge from her cheek. “I told you. Stay away from fire.”

A laugh-sob escaped before she could stop it. Emotion crashed over her. For a brief moment the rest of the world fell silent.

Blue lights strobed as firefighters swarmed the entrance. An EMT hurried over with oxygen masks.

Aria let the medic guide her to an ambulance bench. Luca hovered until he was shooed away for triage on other victims.

She watched him go until she could only see a tall shadow in torn tux pants, and felt her mission tilt on its axis.

He saved me twice.

And the fire was definitely no accident. Her father’s text from last night about the movement in Naples… it had to be a warning. He’d staged this to see whether she’d sacrifice club assets or herself. She’d chosen the guests. Would that mark her weak?

Luca’s tux jacket still lay across Aria’s shoulders as she slipped into the empty media suite. The servers hummed like cicadas. Her head throbbed from smoke, but she needed answers.

She powered up her personal laptop and froze.

The encrypted folder she’d hidden the surveillance copy in was open.

Files: empty.

A single line of text sat in the chat window:

> Nice speech, princess.

—R

Her father.

She slammed the lid shut, she could feel her pulse hammering inside her. On the desk beside the mousepad lay a fresh USB stick. No note.

Adrenaline shaking her fingers, she inserted it into an air-gapped drive. One document appeared:

TARGET-01 – Dr. Matteo Rossi (Team Doctor)

Objective: Remove within 48 hrs. Maintain plausible accident. Bonus if death occurs off-site.

Aria’s vision swam. First kill order. On a man she’d interviewed yesterday, an innocent physician with twins in kindergarten.

Her stomach roiled. She’d followed harsher orders before, but something felt different now… perhaps Luca’s steady hands pulling her from fire, or the fleeting humanity in his eyes… she didn't know but from past time she could somehow tell that this was wrong.

“I was built for this,” she reminded herself. “I'm a weapon… daddy's little weapon.” She wiped the sweat rolling down her forehead.

There were sounds of footsteps in the hall, she yanked the USB and slid it into her bra just as Luca stepped inside, tie undone, shirt half-soaked from the fire hoses.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Fine,” she lied, turning away to hide her turmoil.

He noticed the tremor in her hand. “Aria, talk to me.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” Her voice cracked. “It’s late.”

He took a tentative step closer. “What did you see on those cameras?”

“What makes you think I saw anything?” She stilled.

“Because someone wiped them tonight. Same someone who tried to burn a ballroom full of people.” His eyes searched hers. “You’re hiding information, and I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“Why?” Her resolve faltered.

“Because…” He raised his wrist, showing that faint assassin’s crest. “Because I know what it means to be forced into things.”

She reached out, fingertips grazing the scar. Electricity shot up her arm—memory of the night her first love betrayed her eight years ago.

“Let me help,” he whispered.

For a split second, something inside her hesitated. But Riccardo’s icy voice echoed in her head… Targets: 1-3. No excuses.

She stepped back. “Good night, Mr Moretti.”

A wall slid between them. Luca’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded and left.

When the door clicked shut, Aria allowed herself one silent sob before wiping it away.

“I'd decide who dies first when I'm sure that he's the same.” He just openly accepted that he was part of an organization without saying it.

She powered down the lights, pocketed the kill order, and slipped into the corridor.

She took out her phone.

“Code 21: Daddy, let me do my job at my own pace.”